


A Man Lost

by Quiet_reader



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Dark, Disabled Character, Gen, Past Torture, Poor Tony, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Team Feels, Team as Family, Tony-centric, broken character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-02-18 08:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2341280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_reader/pseuds/Quiet_reader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time an English-accented voice would have awoken the sleeping man lying in the bed in hopefully, but unlikely, restful slumber.</p><p>That was in the days before the man learnt of the terror invisible voices could provide. That was in the days before he learnt of the agony that voices he could not see could provide. That was in the days before the mind that had created the voice had been broken by the torment and torture wrought up on it.</p><p>Tony Stark had been in captivity for nearly three years. Three years of torment and torture all because a-now-very-dead-somebody had thought that he required punishing. Punishing for the fact that his company’s weapons had caused the death of American troops. A singular American Troop. A man’s son. Tony Stark broke.</p><p>That voice spoke to its creator no more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This really is dark, I'm sorry. I don't know where it came from. There will not be any explicit violence really, there might be the occasional flashback. The regression tag is there more because Tony's mind has regressed to a child-like state. I'm sorry.

There is a room. 

The room is within a tower. 

It is not the Penthouse Suite. Instead it is ensconced close to the centre of the tower. Below it lays the floor of one of the deadliest females. Above it rests the floor of a God. On one side resides a man who some would argue is nearly a God. On the other abides a man with breath-taking anger-management issues. Presiding over all of those? There lives the only man who has ever been tested by a secret agency three times for the X-gene due to the superiority of his eye sight. The room is secure.

The room ought to have been nearly silent. After all, it was a bedroom with a sleeping person contained within. The silence ought to have only broken by the deep breaths that a body emits whilst in the process of sleeping. Instead, a light melody danced its way around the chamber. The melody was not of an overly loud volume as such a thing would no doubt awaken the sleeping frame, no. Instead its only aim was to overcome the suffocating sound of silence which could disguise all manner of horrors. 

The room ought to have been dark. After all, it was a bedroom with a sleeping person contained within. Darkness can aid in restful sleep. All natural light was shielded from the room by thick curtains covering metallic blinds. This is mostly normal. Perhaps the thickness of the curtains could cause one to raise an eyebrow, but that could be accounted for by personal taste. The darkness was offset by dim light reaching from all corners of the ceiling gifting the room a warm ambience whilst lessening the effects of unknown shadows. Unfamiliar shadows are not to be encouraged within this room. Only known ones are acceptable.

The room does not contain a bed large enough for twenty seven models plus one multi-billionaire to sleep in. That’s what once many would have assumed. Nor is it littered with nearly completed projects, dangerous equipment and glass all in various states of being half-full. There is not a wardrobe filled with clothing and more pairs of suits than one man could possibly need. In fact, the bedding is not even red and gold nor more opulent than any Arabic Prince could dream of possessing. 

There is a simple, single bed pressed right into the corner of the room. It is covered by a bright purple, fuzzy blanket that is illustrated by stars of various colours. The stars themselves are made of differently textured materials running from velvet-like to fluffy. The blanket is not alone on the bed. There are several cushions also placed in distinctly haphazard positions along the wall so that the occupant of the bed need not roll into the wall. 

Slumbering within the bed is a figure, covered by the blanket and held deep within the REM cycle. Dreams.

There is not a table placed conveniently close by to contain a lamp or anything of that ilk. Instead there is a table on the far side with three chairs neatly tucked aside it. Atop the table are bits of paper inscribed with drawings and writing.

They do not resemble the work of an adult.

The strokes are of an uneven and quivering nature. Not ones that have been articulated by a steady hand, but instead by a hand that is unable to remain steady despite its owner’s best attempts. Some of the pictures display shoddy attempts at being coloured in. It pains several of the occupants of this tower to see these drawings. But still they encourage them to be completed. They obviously provide joy and satisfaction to their owner. These emotions are to be encouraged and cherished. They are not always present. 

Leaning against the wall rests a wooden stick of suitable weight and height to aid an adult man. 

A quiet knock sounded through the room. There was a pause before the door swung inwards and a tall, blonde-haired figure entered bearing a tray. His tread remained light across the carpeted floor; Steve Rogers had no intention of startling the occupant of the bed awake. He did not try to walk so quietly that the room’s occupant could entertain the thought that someone might be sneaking up upon him. As Steve entered the room, his face set into a pleasant smile, the lights within the room slowly increased in strength matched by the speed of the incrementally increasing volume of the dancing melody.

Once upon a time an English-accented voice would have awoken the sleeping man lying in the bed in hopefully, but unlikely, restful slumber. 

That was in the days before the man learnt of the terror invisible voices could provide. That was in the days before he learnt of the agony that voices he could not see could provide. That was in the days before the mind that had created the voice had been broken by the torment and torture wrought up on it. 

Tony Stark had been in captivity for nearly three years. Three years of torment and torture all because a-now-very-dead-somebody had thought that he required punishing. Punishing for the fact that his company’s weapons had caused the death of American troops. A singular American Troop. A man’s son. Tony Stark broke. 

That voice spoke to its creator no more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for all the kudos and comments (especially you, Snowy, with your ego-boosting!)
> 
> I’m not entirely certain if I should put an official warning, but Steve does think somewhat disparagingly (or even worse, dismissively) of Tony’s new mental state. He also thinks the term ‘retard’ as that is what would have been used in his day. I apologise if this offends anyone – that is absolutely not my intention. (Nor my beliefs, I hasten to add!) There’s a fairly taut line here I’m doing a jig on as there are no doubt culturally sensitive issues in how people with mental disabilities are handled. I’m trying to do it in a sensitive fashion, but really do apologise if I get that wrong. 
> 
> One of the main elements I’m playing with here is precisely how the team would react if one of their members did receive a serious mental injury. There are so many considerations to take into account, not least of how it would affect team dynamics and morale. This is something that Steve, as the leader, has to pay attention to. I reckon a physical impairment would be much easier for them to deal with. I chose Tony as my focus as he’s the character I feel that I understand the best. (and he’s, you know, my favourite. We always hurt the ones we love? Can I use that as an excuse?) If I was being wholly realistic about this I’d most likely have a chapter about public the perception + Pepper/Rhodey. I highly doubt I’ll do that, mind you, now the idea is stirring for a public perception one…. *ponders* I do really want to emphasise though that a lot of Steve’s thoughts go the direction they do because he’s the leader. I don’t think that they are not necessarily thoughts that Steve Rogers alone would entertain, but this is Steve Rogers who is responsible for the lives of several other people. He [i]has[/i]to consider the whole team, as well as things such as morale. 
> 
> Also, in addition to that, Steve has to deal with the cultural differences. In his time mentally ill people were seen as shameful – they were frequently locked into institutes so that they didn’t bring shame down on families. They weren’t treated as members of society – a lot of people were even scared of them (something that, sadly, hasn’t changed today). So yes, Steve’s thought process can be described as being at times (at worse) derogatory towards Tony. In a way he does view him as being something less of a person (hence phrases such as ‘been recovered’ and ‘regained’ instead of ‘rescued’) 
> 
> Anyway, I’m really sorry for the mini-lecture. I’ve put a lot of thought behind this chapter as Steve normally portrayed as being among the kindest of the Avengers – I agree with this portrayal, but this is how I can see this playing out. If anyone does disagree, I’d be really, really interested in getting into a discussion over it via comments. Feel more than welcome to disagree! I love character-discussions and would be so happy to debate over it. 
> 
> That said, please continue on and enjoy!

Steve Rogers shifted the tray he was bearing until it was safe for him to knock quietly on the door. A colder, more bitter, side which he preferred to not acknowledge questioned precisely why he did this habitual action. It wasn’t like Tony was going to answer him. No warm, rich voice was going to call out ‘come in’ or ‘who is it?’ or even ‘Later, Rogers. I don’t need to eat right now, I’m busy!’ No. The manners behind asking permission to enter Tony’s personal space, or even in just announcing ones presence were no longer necessary when it came to Tony Stark. It wasn’t like he could appreciate the difference. Not anymore. 

The once proud man could not even be called a shadow of what, let alone who, he once was. Oh, the doctors said that he might improve. He had only been regained two months ago after all – he hadn’t healed from all the injuries he’d gained, let alone recovered the weight he’d lost. But his mind… his mind just wasn’t the bright beacon it had once been. It wasn’t just that he barely spoke these days; though that was a hard enough change to adjust to. It was more in the way he moved, he did things. Every motion he made was always preceded by a side-ways glance at whoever he was with to double check if it was permitted. His gestures were just so much slower as though he had to think each move through more carefully. He was…retarded, it would have been called in Steve’s day. ‘Simple’ was the much kinder, and more modern, word as Clint had very loudly and vocally informed him.

Still, he _could_ improve. Maybe. Maybe if his body regained some strength – Natasha worked with him daily on his physio. They’d tried using a variety of doctors, but Tony just made these anxious huffing noises that they soon began to attribute to fear whenever he was forced into prolonged exposure to strangers. 

Maybe he was better off with the team. Who knew? One day he might even be able to leave this room. This new cage. He’d come close last week, limping to the door as Clint was leaving. He loved Clint. Clint was brilliant with him. He sat there and read books to him, not child-friendly books the way Steve would have been tempted to, but more age-suitable stories. Steve instead preferred to draw with Tony. It seemed safer. Less risk of triggering him into one of those horrible attacks where he’d hide under the bed and not move for hours other than that awful juddering movement from sheer terror.

They always needed to up Tony’s pain medication post one of those attacks – his muscles were physically sore from the effort of vibrating for hours on end.

Maybe it was better to sedate him through them instead? Maybe it would be better to keep him lightly sedated permanently so there was just generally less anxiety? When Steve had voiced these thoughts the others had ardently disagreed. 

Heck, the last attack he’d had Clint had physically crawled under the bed with him and just sat there – the higher than normal bed had been one of the first alterations to Tony’s room that had been made. There’d been a soft, crooning sound that had come from his throat and one hand that continued to stroke Tony’s bare foot softly. That had been the only motion the sniper had made for nearly two hours. Eventually Tony had turned himself around enough that his head rested mere inches from Clint’s knee. He had seemed to seek, and receive, comfort from the heat that the archer emanated. Clint had even fed him under there – he was far too thin to be missing meals. The doctors still mumbled about having him on an IV to add to his daily calorie intake, but he did so hate needles. 

Maybe it’d be better if he was in some form of… institute? They were apparently vastly improved from his day, it didn’t need to be a bad thing! Steve had been to look at some personally. Expense wouldn’t be an issue; they could send him to the best in the country. Or the closest. The one’s Steve had looked at had been bright, cheerful places. The doctors had seemed happy to adapt to their client’s requirements too. Tony would adjust. He’d have constant care there, and the team wouldn’t have to worry about Tony while they were out. 

Tony was a liability. 

It hurt to say that, but that didn’t make it less true. Steve had never been one to flinch from painful truths. 

It still hurt though.

The team had made so many alterations since Tony had done this half-return. It had begun by Steve and Bruce relocating so that their room bracketed Tony’s so that they were close by in an emergency. Natasha had taken the floor below, Thor the one above and Clint the one above that. They were closer to the centre of the Tower too. Clint had suggested that Tony felt better and more secure there. Steve personally didn’t reckon that Tony knew the difference, but if it made Clint feel better to have Tony in the securest place in New York City? Then Steve wasn’t going to argue. 

It was rare for them to all leave the Tower now, too. Tony was very rarely left alone during his waking hours; Pepper and Coulson came to look after him if the Team was called to Assemble. Coulson had volunteered for this. He rarely left New York these days. Tony was beginning to get used to them. Even with these measures in effect, Steve knew that his mind was frequently with the trio back home when he fought. He doubted he was the only one. They _could not_ afford distractions whilst in battle. 

And JARVIS? He still was vocally active in all other areas of the Tower, but he never spoke to Tony. Not anymore. 

That didn’t even begin to cover all the changes the team had made in how they behaved whenever Tony was present. It was impossible for them to know all the things that had happened to Tony whilst he was in captivity. They still didn’t know all of the multitude of triggers he now possessed. Professor Xavier had visited and tried to communicate telepathically with Tony to see how mentally present the man was. He had explained that Tony’s mindscape was in as child-like state as the rest of him was. He’d had some flashes of what had occurred, but in no way had time to find everything. Still, the information he’d given had been useful – they hadn’t realised that JARVIS had been terrifying Tony until the Professor had told them. It was only after several visits by the older man that Tony felt confident enough to talk at all. 

Tony made them more vulnerable too. 

He caused them distraction during fighting, and was an open target for any villain. It was well publicised his lack of mental faculties; such information had been impossible to keep from the public. Steve knew he was ready for an attack on him any day. This was the main argument that Clint and Natasha used for keeping Tony with them. What defence would he have in an Institute? 

For the moment, Steve was behind him remaining in the Tower with the rest of them. At the moment he was a positive influence on them as they were all still happy that he was back. Plus there was still the (very minor) chance of improvements. 

Steve Rogers knocked on the door prior to entering the room. 

Maybe that was because everyone else did it? Maybe it was because good manners were such an intrinsic part of him. Maybe it was a nod of respect to who Tony once was.  
He padded into the room once the door opened, directing a smile of gratitude towards one of JARVIS’s many cameras as the lights brightened and music turned up. They’d swiftly learnt the consequences of leaving Tony in the dark or silence. 

“Good morning, Tony.” He called over to the slowly-waking man as he set down the tray on the table, careful to not place it on any of the drawings scattered over the surface. They’d have to find somewhere to place them, maybe pin them on the wall? Would Tony like that? 

The tray safely stored, Steve made his way over to the bed sniffing delicately. It smelt like Tony had managed to make it through the night, and though he most likely would have had nightmares, they hadn’t been bad enough that he’d pissed himself in his terror. 

He crouched down next to Tony’s bed, not too close. 

He pasted a wide, welcoming smile on his face before uttering another, softer, “Good morning, Tony.” 

He waited.

At least the waiting was familiar. Old Tony had never woken quickly, and quite often couldn’t be called ‘awake’ until at least two ginormous mugs of coffee had been consumed. Bruce had once, laughingly, compared Tony’s brain to a computer. A severely overloaded computer that took a while to come online. It made sense – so much intelligence compounded into one skull had to take a while to get into order. Just as so much intelligence took a while to settle down so Tony could sleep. 

Tony himself was curled up in the far corner of the bed, safely burrowed beneath the blanket that Clint had provided for him and with his back pressed against the cushions lining the wall. He didn’t like sleeping underneath several layers as it apparently made him feel restrained. JARVIS kept the room at a slightly higher temperature than normal as a result of this. Tony had so little fat on him that he felt the cold easily. Steve would never complain ever again about somewhere being too warm. 

Tony blinked up at him once, twice. His sleep-fogged eyes slowly began to clear as they attempted to focus on the face that was wafting in front of him. His nose twitched as the scent of food began to waft throughout the room. The move made Steve’s smile broaden. 

Right before his lips tightened again at the terror that flooded into Tony’s dramatically paler face.

“You’re safe Tony, it’s fine. It’s me, Steve. Do you remember, sweetheart? You’re safe here, we’re in the Tower. Do you remember the Tower?”

Such utterances continued to pour from Steve lips for several moments as Tony’s face slowly lost the fear that had taken over it and recognition flood in. 

“Steve.” 

The name was enunciated with so many emotions colouring it; pride at the recognition, residual terror, questioning. The letters themselves had taken all the focus of a genius to be enunciated correctly. Tony’s jaw had been broken several times, and wired shut, and all sorts of other unpleasant things. It took a great deal of effort for Tony to pronounce words correctly – he so often slurred them as his jaw failed to follow the instructions sent from his brain. The scars in that area were truly horrific. Steve didn’t try to hide his strengthening smile.

“That’s right, Tony. Good boy. Steve. It’s morning time, are you hungry?” 

Steve made sure that his words came out both slowly and clearly; these days it took Tony a little while to register words well enough to understand them. 

This new slowness was only evidenced in the time it took Tony to give a halting nod. Tony was always hungry these days. But still, both Natasha and Bruce emphasised how important questions like these were to ask Tony as it encouraged him to think. No one was quite certain yet if Tony was trying to work out what [i]they[/i] wanted him to answer, or if it was his actual opinion. But still, any attempts at thought were to be encouraged. 

At Tony’s response, Steve grinned once more. Some days Tony would take several hours before he could interact with someone else. At Steve’s welcoming smile, a slow echo of the expression spread across Tony’s face. It was so different from how Tony’s smile used to be – it no longer held that controlled edge or any of the sardonic emotions the man had so casually displayed. Instead it held… no guile. No second meanings. It was just precisely that.

A smile.

Innocence.

Child-like.

“Let’s get you up and over to the table, then.” Steve continued, “May I move closer?” Again, it took some time for Tony to parse through the words and convince himself he was allowed to respond with a nod. 

Steve edged closer at the motion, still being careful to keep in his ducked position. He extended one hand in Tony’s direction and waited until the other man clasped it. Only at that did he, slowly, painfully slowly, rise to his full height from the crouched position. He helped Tony into a sitting position, carefully ensuring that each movement was only slightly faster than glacial. With Tony still being so underweight, and the amount of different drugs the man took, sudden alterations in blood pressure could make him faint. 

“Good job, Tony.” praised Steve once more once Tony was fully upright. “Ready to get to your feet?” That was a slight test right there – Tony struggled to understand more complex language structures first thing in the morning. The man in question allowed his head to fall to one side as he struggled to work out the meaning, Steve didn’t grant him with the sense to call it a head-tilt. Eventually he gave another slow nod though puzzlement was clear within his eyes.

Steve nodded, frustration curling in his belly though he was careful to not to allow any onto his expression. He wasn’t frustrated with Tony, after all! Just the situation. They were all working on getting Tony confident enough to question things he didn’t understand, but so far the process was slow going. 

“Alright, let’s stand up.” Steve re-iterated in a way that he knew Tony could understand. Still at the same slow speed, he helped the man shunt to the edge of the bed and move to a standing position. The pair froze there for a moment, waiting for Tony’s usual bout of dizziness to pass.  
“How do your legs feel this morning, Tony? Do you want your stick? Or the chair?” Tony’s leg. Steve again suppressed all signs of the grimace that wanted so much to paint itself across his face. The scans hadn’t been precisely clear about what had happened to it, only that it had been broken several times in different locations. Then, the starvation had not allowed the breaks to knit together completely. Tony’s bones just didn’t have the density that they ought to have, not any more. They were as fragile as he was. They were doing their best to rectify the situation with drugs and food, but it was unlikely he’d ever be as strong as he once was. 

Normally he’d have been given crutches as both legs bore similar injuries, but the rest of his body wouldn’t have been able to manage the movement required. As a result Tony used a single walking stick. He had until recently been bound to a wheel-chair but the doctors were trying to encourage small amounts of movement so as to work on re-strengthening muscles. Everything took its own time.

Tony shook his head.

Steve blinked.

Had that happened? Tony had shaken his head.

Tony had _shaken_ his head.

He had expressed a contrary opinion! 

The smile that Steve shone in Tony’s direction was the biggest that the smaller man had yet seen from his blonde-haired Captain. He wanted to see it again!

Tony’s gaze shifted to his feet as he willed them into motion. He knew how to do this! One foot shunted forward followed by a lurching movement and the second foot mimicking it. 

Steve, moving in incremental steps next to the swaying genius kept every muscle taught as all his focus remained on the man. If he looked like he was going to fall? Steve would catch him. This was unbelievable amounts of progress. Not the walking, but the decisions behind it. The willingness to make said decision. 

Steve knew that once Tony reached the chair he would most likely begin to vibrate in terror over his boldness. Maybe he would hide underneath the table. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to keep down his breakfast because he was so afraid. But still, he seized this moment and made an independent decision. A stubborn decision. 

[ _This_ was why no one would ever put Tony into a home. An institute. 

These tiny displays of stubbornness that still occasionally shone through. Of determination. Of courage.

These were signs that all heroes would recognise.

Iron Man still lived.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that took so long folks - was really struggling with it for some reason. Still, done now. ^^ You can thank Snow I posted it today!
> 
> Thank you again for all the comments/kudos/bookmarks/subscriptions. I really, really appreciate them.

Clint Barton shifted the tray he was bearing until it was safe for him to knock quietly on the door. He paused, waiting to see whether someone from inside would acknowledgement of his action. This was his habit. It was his continuous almost game to see whether Tony would call out for him to enter or not.

It hadn’t happened yet.

Despite Clint’s hopes.

Still, this practice had some other benefits too; it allowed him to ascertain how the moods of the occupants were. Steve quite often was with Tony at this time – they tried to keep to some form of routine, and he seemed to respond best to Steve bringing him breakfast. If Steve was feeling frustrated with everything then he’d quite often call out to welcome Clint in almost immediately following the knock. That just showed that Steve believed there was no point in waiting to see if Tony would answer or not.

If Steve was in a good mood then he’d wait too, a pregnant silence would take over the room to see if Tony would react. If Steve was in a good mood then there was a high likelihood that Tony was in a good spot that day.

If Tony was in a really bad spot? Well then! Clint would have been able hear the cries from down the hallway. 

He’d still have knocked nonetheless. 

These things were easier to piece together than people thought. Many in S.H.I.E.L.D. were impressed at Hawkeye’s legendary abilities at reading people (they feared Natasha’s). It was simple, really. It was just a case of observing how people acted in certain situations, and then thinking time to ascertain why they did this. Clint was nothing if not observant. 

Natasha, on the other hand, was able to _understand_ why people acted the way they did. Clint knew what actions led to Steve answering his knock, but Natasha knew _why_. She could then manipulate the situation to results that she preferred. This was why she terrified people. 

Silence greeted his knock.

Hopefully a good day.

After a few moments of just listening, the sound of a low chuckle emitting from Steve reached Hawkeye’s eavesdropping ears. Steve chuckling with Tony? That was unusual! 

The door opened as Clint knocked at it with his foot – the silent code between himself and JARVIS. The AI was well aware how paranoid the idea of being constantly observed (and worse, analysed) made Clint, and so acquiesced to certain habits. He waited to open doors until Clint had made some sort of motion that resembled him pushing or closing a door. He always made a beeping sound if he had something to report to just Clint, or if Clint was going into one of the public areas where JARVIS was constantly watching. Small things like that. 

In return? Clint just talked with JARVIS as he would have anyone else. He didn’t order him around. He didn’t treat him like a machine. He had made sure that JARVIS was kept up-to-date in the constant hunt for Tony when he was missing, and enabled him to hack into SHIELD servers for the same purpose. They had an understanding. 

That and JARVIS promised he wouldn’t go nuts and try to kill them all in their sleep. That was always a bonus too. Mind you, he hadn’t mentioned about when they were awake… Always wise to bear that in mind. 

Clint slipped into the room as soon as the door was open wide enough for him to fit with the tray, nodding a thanks to JARVIS as he did so. Eagerness to see what had made Steve chuckle and why he was in such a good mood thrummed through his veins. 

Immediately on entry the scene before him forced an unplanned smile to jump onto his lips. Steve and Tony were sitting on the floor, Steve was cross-legged with his shoulders hunched in a pose that was completely contrary to how he usually sat. Normally his shoulders were pushed back, maximising his chest space. 

Natasha believed this was a trait that carried over from when he was sickly; the more his shoulders were pushed back, the more space his lungs had to breathe. Clint was always amused because it suited the proud image so many bore of _Captain America_. Stance wide and proud. It had taken Steve a long time to accustomise himself to adapting his posture for Tony. 

Clint’s smile ought to have diminished when his gaze turned to the much smaller man who was nearly sprawled out on the floor to accommodate his still-healing injuries. 

The man who had once been Iron Man was still so thin. Clint could have easily wrapped both hands around his waist. 

His brown eyes were encircled by dark smudges that painted a billion pictures of the exhaustion that still hounded him. His face bore new scars, let alone the others that littered his petite frame under the clothes covering him. Hells. The man didn’t even have the flexibility any more to cross his legs, forced to half lie there propped against a multitude of cushions.

If the cushions weren’t there, then his bony arse would have soon been sore, even on the lushly carpeted floor. There were far too few cushioning layers of fat in between bone and the unforgiving floor. 

Before? Clint would never have thought of Tony in terms of ‘petite’. Now it described him perfectly, personality and body. There were too many Befores and Afters with this new Tony.

Still. His smile was not halted. Instead, Clint’s smile only grew.

Tony’s clothes were messily put on; he was wearing an unbuttoned shirt over a long-sleeved (potentially backwards) undershirt, one of the legs of his tracksuit bottoms was hiked up to his knee, and he wasn’t wearing socks. His hair was clearly un-brushed and he still had a smear of tooth-paste on his chin.

A far cry from the neatly put together Tony-doll that Clint normally saw.

A million miles away from the sharply dressed Tony Stark of Before that the media and public saw.

If anything? He was closest to the Tony Stark that the Avengers had treasured post an all-night (or two) engineering binge). 

That Tony had some days been barely capable of dressing himself too.

In short? Steve hadn’t dressed him. 

How the hell the man had managed to (mostly) dress himself was an absolute mystery. His fingers had so little flexibility because of the amount of times they had been broken. That and the fact that a low, constant trembling ran through them would have made it so hard to clothe himself.

It was hoped that surgery could eventually correct the first issue, and time the second. Clint would not have predicted that Tony had the wherewithal to figure out how to put the clothes on independently, let alone the capability, at this stage. 

Facts clearly proved differently! 

Tony Stark’s legendary stubbornness was rearing its wonderful, beautiful head once again. 

Who’d have thought it? Iron Man still lived in that noggin. Somewhere.

The doctors had suggested it better to wait for the corrective surgery for Tony’s hands. He still wasn’t anything close to resembling a healthy weight, and there were other things that required surgery too. Such as his leg. 

The doctors thought it would be a good idea to see how much mind he could regain before they started doing potentially frightening surgery. After all, nothing was hurting him right now, as far as they could tell. There would be a lingering stiffness and low-level aching, particularly in his ankle, but it wasn’t certain that surgery would do anything to improve that anyway. 

Anyroad! Enough meandering. 

The pair were sitting there with paper strewn all over the floor around them, black meaningless lines squiggled over them. Saying that… Clint tilted his head to look at them. Were they so meaningless? Some of them vaguely resembled letters. Once Clint glanced to the papers placed neatly in front of Steve, he could indeed see that the captain was indeed trying to teach Tony to write. 

“Good, Tony!” praised Steve when the other man finished drawing (this broken script certainly couldn’t be called writing, not yet.) a letter that vaguely resembled an ‘A’. 

Tony offered a slight grin at the blonde as he carefully (heartbreakingly-carefully) set down the black pen he’d had clenched within his fist. 

Clint’s grin brightened even further, if that was possible; this was the first time that Steve had tried to do something with Tony that would actually help him rather than just keep him entertained. 

Normally Steve would draw with him and do small things that would help to develop his fine motor control, but this was actually trying to help his brain – a whole new level! 

Tony clearly wasn’t the only one having a good day! 

Being careful not to interrupt the lesson, the archer quietly walked over to the table and gently set the tray down on the messy surface. Small and quiet movements were important around Tony these days. 

On the tray were several high-calorie smoothies of different flavours (most of which contained at least a hint of blueberry) in larger-than-normal sippy cups. Clint was trying to encourage Tony to feed himself somewhat, and sippy cups helped a great deal since they were harder for liquid to spill from. 

Tony got so frustrated when he spilt liquid. He knew he ought to be able to do it, but just didn’t have the dexterity.

He picked up one of the cups and meandered over to the pair, pausing a metre or so away. “Morning Tones, Steve!” he greeted, keeping his smile as bright and cheerful as he could. “Looks like you’re doing some pretty awesome work there!” 

Maybe some would take his bright words as being patronising and un-Hawkeye-like, but Clint genuinely meant them. The fact that Tony was even trying to write was such a momentous improvement.

Here? In this room? He was never Hawkeye. He was Clint. Just as Natasha was ‘Tasha. and Bruce was ‘ruce (the harsh ‘B’ sound was sometimes hard for Tony to enunciate, just as he sometimes couldn’t get the ‘Cl’ phoneme correct). Steve seemed the only one who struggled to work out the right medium between Captain America and Steve.

Clint personally thought that a bit more ‘Captain America’ was needed. Steve Rogers was of a time when the mentally handicapped were locked away, and he felt that Steve was sometimes a bit too close to wanting to do that to Tony.

The team would never let it happen.

Captain America was… a lot more PC. In some ways he was a lot harder, but in some ways he was forced to appear as though he understood the modern world in a way that just Steve didn’t have to. 

At his words, Tony looked up and his determined look of concentration morphed into a broad grin. “ ‘limt! Ah. ‘lint. Clint!” As he spoke, he lost his smile as he strained to focus, but once he knew he had the man’s name correct it regrew to epic proportions. 

Clint grinned through Tony’s attempts to pronounce his name, he wasn’t quite sure whether it was because Tony couldn’t actively remember it, or whether he just struggled with the enunciation. 

“Hey, buddy! How’re you doing today?”

Tony glanced at Steve, a question in his eyes, to which Steve responded with a helpless nod. No one was quite sure what question it was that Tony was asking, but the answer seemed to be the correct one judging by the man’s blooming smile once more.

He raised a trembling hand in the definite imitation of a thumbs up, causing Clint to smile and return the gesture. “I see you remember what we were talking about yesterday,” he grinned in genuine pride. “Do you remember the opposite, still?” 

Tony frowned for a second before hesitantly reversing his hand so that his thumb was pointing towards the floor. 

“Bullseye! Ten out of ten!” Praised Clint, ensuring his voice was bright and happy sounding so that Tony wasn’t confused by the words he was using as he gave Tony another thumbs up. 

He was testing Tony today, taking advantage of the fact that he was having a good day. It seemed that sometimes it was hard for the genius to understand several methods of communication at the same time. His comprehension of vocal tone mixed in with words was improving; therefore it was time to bring in body language as well.

“And what’s it mean? In words this time, if you can.”

This was a harder challenge than it sounded. Tony hated speaking. Partially because of the slight pain it caused his throat, and partially because he’d been trained out of vocalising actual words. When he’d first been allowed back to the Tower he’d done little but communicate through grunts. In the hospital? He’d been silent. Frozen.

Disturbing.

Still, Clint was working on getting him to be more confident about speaking. Hopefully one day they’d wish that the man would just shut up for five minutes once again.

This time the pause was longer as Tony deliberated over what word to give in answer.

“B-bad…?”

The hesitance in the answer made Clint’s heart clench. That the genius of the modern world would feel so uncertain over such a simple word…. Still, he was careful to not allow that to show on either his face or in his body language. Instead he placed both hands in the ‘thumbs up’ position (whilst being careful to not drop the shake), and broadened his grin once more until his cheeks were almost painful with how widely they were stretched. 

“Prize for Tony! One hundred percent, corrrrrrrrrrect!”

Even if Tony didn’t understand all the phrases that Clint was saying, let alone the cultural inflection of the ‘corrrrrect’, at least the meaning ought to be clear through his exuberance and body language. 

That said, Clint reached out to pass the drink to Tony. “Hey, you must be getting thirsty by now, hey? And hungry. That one’s a blueberry and lime flavour, does it sound good? There’s also a mango and blueberry and a strawberry, mango and elderflower. I made them just for you, Tony.” 

Tony grinned and reached out without hesitance to accept the cup, something which caused a flair of pride to surge up through Clint. He was the only one that Tony would accept something from unequivocally. All of the others he’d deliberate over and be overly cautious with, but he just seemed to trust Clint. 

He watched like his namesake as Tony clasped his hands, unable to bend his fingers, around the cup and took a tiny sip of the smoothie within. So many drinks had been lost due to Tony dropping cups, they’d all learnt it best to try and prevent spillages. Something about the carelessness of it just seemed to upset Tony. 

Either that or he thought he was going to be knocked around for daring to have an accident. That was a distinct possibility too. Not that he’d ever said so, but the first time he’d knocked a drink over had caused such a look of utter terror to spread over his face it still made a deep anger rumble within Clint’s belly at the memory. 

That wasn’t the only thing that terrorised Tony. 

They were constantly finding new triggers. 

The taste was clearly pleasing to him as he promptly offered Clint a small, shy smile before continuing to drink. Tony never gulped down anything anymore. He always took a tentative sip first. Clint guessed that he’d been forced to eat all manner of unpleasant things in the past – given that when he’d got to hospital he’d had worms, dysentery, and all sorts of unpleasant stomach-related illnesses.

At first he’d just eaten anything straight away that he was given. Would just stuff it in his mouth. Clint took it as a sign of healing that he now tried it first. He trusted that it wouldn’t be taken away from him and that he wouldn’t be punished for rejecting it. He didn’t yet trust that they wouldn’t give him bad food, but that would come in time. He’d learn.

He was Tony Stark, after all. No matter what clothing he was clad in. Or how neatly he was presented. Tony Stark learnt. 

“You enjoying that then, hey buddy?” 

Neither Steve nor Clint tried to hold back their smiles at Tony’s evident enjoyment of the drink. The simple pleasures.

At Clint’s words, Tony once more glanced towards the soldier, a question again in his glance. Just as Steve was about to nod again in response, Clint held up his hand, halting the movement.   
“Hey Tones, since you’re having such a _good_ day. Because you’re very, very good, right? Try to say what you’re thinking. Can you do that? Use your words again, buddy.” 

At the spiel of words emerging from Clint, Tony once again glanced towards Steve followed by flicking his gaze at Clint, his expression unclear this time. 

Clint inwardly cursed at the renewed uncertainty the action suggested. Too many words. The structure was too complicated. That was the mistake he made over and over again with Tony. 

“What are you thinking, Tony? Can you speak it?” 

This time there was no doubt about it. Tony’s sideways glance towards Steve definitely contained a hint of fear as his breathing sped up just ever so slightly. Only just enough for Clint to pick up. 

“Hey, you’re fine, Tony. It’s alright. Don’t worry, alright?”

Clint did his best to inject as much reassurance and calm into his tone as he could, holding his hands out palm upwards in the universal gesture of harmlessness as Steve edged away from Tony, giving him his space. He wasn’t truly concerned. These attacks happened several times a day, sometimes they could be headed off at the beginning and sometimes not. This one looked like it was going to have to be crested. 

Tony let out a low groaning noise and began to gasp for breath. Had he been punched in the gut? No. That didn’t happen here. It felt like he had! Except the pain wasn’t ebbing. It was spreading. Lingering. Swelling. Everywhere. His head, his back, his stomach, his legs, his feet. They were going to do more! Make more! He was meant to be doing something, but he didn’t know what. They were going to be angry. Anger. Pain.

Nausea began to rise within his tightening throat, and he had to swallow several times through his quickening breaths in an attempt to abate it. He _couldn’t_ vomit. He couldn’t. It wasn’t allowed, and he’d have to clean it up if he did. Bad boys vomited. Tony didn’t want to be bad. He tried. He was good, right? 

Tony felt another groan force its way out. The sound made it feel like someone was gripping his throat with several hands and _squeezing_. Sounds weren’t allowed! His head began to pound as a wave of adrenaline swept through him causing him to tremble anew. No sound! No sound! Nosound! Nosound nosound nosoundnononosoundsnosoundno! 

Frantically he shook his head, trying in vain to blot out the memory of the sound he had dared make. Alas, the motion made no difference when he _knew_ he’d done wrong. Had broken the rules. **Bad! Bad! Bad!**

Tony started as two startlingly warm things gently clasped his hands that were… clenched in a fist? In his lap? (When had they moved there? Weren’t they tied up?) Warm things didn’t exist for Bad Tony’s. Right? 

The warm things moved up and down his hands…stroking them? Going no higher than his wrists which made him happy. It meant the pain was going to be worse when his elbows were held. That meant he wouldn’t be able to move at all. Not an inch. He was used now to cold, hard things being wrapped around his wrists which stopped him from moving. They’d always been there.

So why was this warm? And moving? …stroking? Was he a pet now? It was …nice. No pain.

As his panic abated ever so slightly, sound began to filter in through the blockage which must have been there before.

“-ony. -----------me? --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ne. -----------afe, I promise. ----nt.” 

-nt.

\--nt.  
-int.

Clint! 

Steve!

Tony’s eyes flew open (he’d shut them?) and fastened with unnerving accuracy on the blue eyes that were floating in front of him in a rare moment of direct eye contact.

“You’re safe, Tony. Safe. Good, good Tony. Well done. It’s me Clint. You’re safe. You’re good.”

Tony’s eyes flickered downwards and stared at the two hands blanketing his own. There was no rope. No nasty metal things. 

No pain.

No screeching nerve-endings registering jolt after jolt. 

Hit after hit. 

Scrape after scrape.

One burst of agony after another.

Maybe he hadn’t been bad?

One of the hands that had been wrapped around his wrists floated upward (hands attached to Clint?) 

“-ouch your face. Is that alright, Tony?” 

And paused, an inch or so away from his cheek.

Tony wanted that warmth. His hands now felt cold again with one of their shields removed. 

…Could he? 

… Dare he?

Tony allowed his chin to drop slightly, allowing the hand floating nearby to come into direct contact.

It immediately resumed that stroking motion echoing the other hand causing Tony to lean further into it. 

He liked it when his face was engulfed in warmth. 

It was nice.

Maybe he wasn’t bad if he’d earnt this.

Maybe he wasn’t bad. 

Two solid pillars of warmth suddenly latched themselves onto his shoulders. He flinched for a second, surprised, but the heat emanating from them, and the thick thing that they were attached to that now seemed to be pressing against his back, caused the drowsiness that was sweeping over him to return. 

He liked this.

Steve and Clint watched in near silence as Tony slipped into sleep, cradled within Steve’s arms and with Clint kneeling closely whilst stroking his hand and cheek gently.

The adrenaline that had been running through him had overtaxed his still weak body, causing it to crash and fall rapidly into, hopefully restful, sleep.

“Poor bastard,” whispered Clint once he was sure the words wouldn’t cause the slumbering man to wake up. “Let’s get him into bed. We’ll wake him up in an hour or so and I can read to him. Still, he was doing well up until then?”

Steve nodded in agreement, a part of him not yet willing to relinquish the fragile form to the loneliness of the bed before replying in an equally quiet tone. 

“He was, that was his first panic attack of the day.”

Clint let out a low whistle.

“Impressive. You fancy staying there then, Muscle Man?”

Steve responded with a light shrug, careful not to disturb Tony with the action.

“May as well, we can see then how he reacts to waking up like this.”

Instead of verbal reply, Clint gently released his hold on Tony and got to his feet with a grace that most would have envied. He stepped silently towards the bed and removed the top blanket which he had identified that Tony seemed to prefer, and gently covered the man up with it.

“Poor bastard.” He whispered again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez folks, I'm so sorry this has taken me so long and is so short. I always knew this was going to be a short chapter as it's really meant to just be a cut-away chapter. 
> 
> Also.... Big favour please folks? If anyone spots an erroneous usage of either commas or apostrophes could you please tell me? I’m forever finding that I’ve misused them, and it’s something that really bugs me! Thankie! 
> 
> I really am super sorry this has taken me so long. I’ve been really struggling with writing for some reason.
> 
> Thanks again for all the kudos, subscriptions and comments. I really, really, really appreciate them! 
> 
> Sorry again. I feel awful. :(

It was warm. Felt nice. Something was lying on him, possibly his blanket? The surface he was lying on too was nice and warm. It…moved slightly? 

Tony…that was him, right? Tony? Tones? Buddy? Or, when he was Bad… Anthony. He remembered that name far too well. As for TonyStark? He’d prefer not to ever, ever, ever hear that name ever again. 

Those last two names were what the other people called him. They weren’t very nice. Or he was just Bad. He was never quite sure. 

He liked the people who came to see him now. Clint, Tasha, Steve, Bruce. Clint. The other man who came sometimes was sort of nice. He had long hair and hair that covered his mouth up. He was also a bit louder than the others. Bigger. He even made Steve look small! But he was nice. He’d sometimes pick Tony up which could be both terrifying and safe-feeling at the same time. He didn’t come as often as the others. For, he was called. He sung too. Little melodies that were nice to fall asleep to. Clint too. He was nice. He was thumbs up in the air.

So that was many nice people. 

Clint

Tasha

Clint

Bruce

Steve

Clint

For

Tasha

Much nicer than before. 

As he slowly woke up, he fought the urge to stretch. He still hadn’t worked out all the rules that came with living here. So far it seemed just… 

Nice. 

He cracked one eye open, trying to identify precisely where he was.

Odd. This wasn’t normal. 

That was definitely his favourite blanket on top of him. It was really warm and made funny sounds when he moved under it. Also Clint had given it to him. Well, they’d all given him everything in this room, but Clint had unwrapped that for him especially and told him especially it was a gift. For him. Tony Buddy. It was a nice gift too. Not one of the nasty ones that the people from before gave him. And it was from Clint. That made it special. Clint was nice.

So. It was his blanket on top of him, but…? Underneath him was moving a little bit. Not a lot. Plus there was a sort of rumbling feeling…

Oh! Steve! That was Steve’s voice. Steve talking to Clint!

Tony opened his eyes fully, pleased that two of the nice people were here and none of the not nice. It seemed that he was lying on Steve who was hugging him while Clint kept his hands warm, both his hands were wrapped securely around Tony’s own hands keeping them nice and warm. It was nice.

His first instinct was to flinch away; he’d long ago learn the lesson that contact was bad. Particularly contact when he was held down. But the warmth he was feeling mixed in with the fact that these two had never hurt him made the nasty feelings go away. He was safe.

“Hey, look who’s awake.” Clint noticed his sleepy blinking first, and quickly smiled at him. That nice, friendly smile that always made Tony feel so good and warm inside. “Feeling better?” He asked with one thumbs up and a questioning expression on his face.

Words. Words confused Tony so much. He _knew_ he should understand them. He knew he should understand everything. They terrified him too. He’d been taught that he wasn’t allowed to speak. 

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t understand them. 

Sometimes he wasn’t even sure if it was him who was being asked these questions or if someone else was. Sometimes he thought that they might be trying to trick him into speaking. Then he’d get into trouble. But these people were nice. They wouldn’t pull that trick. No one had even hit him since he came here! And they fed him too. Even if he didn’t feel hungry.

Here was just so different from Before. 

He was warm. Warm all the time. No sudden temperature drops or rises. 

No one hit him. 

No loud sounds screamed at him periodically until his head rang and he got all confused by the loud noises. 

There was no longer a body-less voice that told him so calmly precisely what was going to happen next. What he was being punished for. Why he was Bad. Why TonyStark deserved this.

He had something soft to sleep on, not the metallic bars of the cage he’d lived in before. He had space to move around in. 

No one sent fire zigging and zagging through his body, making him shake uncontrollably for days afterwards. 

He wasn’t tied into all sorts of painful position and forced to hold them for hours. Days. Weeks. 

Here? Here. He was happy.

They were soft with him. Kind. They didn’t yell at him, they fed him. Good food! Constant music played for him so he didn’t have to face the Silence. It was never Dark. No shadows loomed out at him. They let him sleep when he wanted, and didn’t wake him up after really short minutes, he was even allowed to sleep lying down! They didn’t push him underwater… 

He was… happy. 

A funny voice in his head sometimes tried to tell him that there had been another Before before the current before. A Before before where he did exactly what he wanted, when he wanted. That thought just made his head ache though and he quickly shied away from such thoughts. Only Bad TonyStark thought he deserved more than what he had. 

He was beyond lucky to have this. He knew that.

Tony blinked slowly at Cli-Clint, uncertain to respond how to the man’s question. His confusion must have been obvious because the man’s smile grew more fond, and one hand reached up to gently pet Tony’s hair in a soothing rhythm. 

“I’m glad,” came the words, despite Tony’s lack of reply. 

See? Beyond lucky.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken me so long! I've moved to a different country and am currently living with seven other people so have been trying to adjust to that. The end of this in particular is very rushed for which I apologise, I desperately wanted to get it finished. I've had the first half written up in a notebook for a fortnight or so and just wanted to get it posted. I may go back and edit it later, am not sure yet. Will get the story finished first I expect.
> 
> Sorry again for the delay and thank you very much for all the subscriptions/bookmarks/comments/kudos. They are so appreciated!

Natasha Romanoff shifted the tray she was bearing until it was safe for her to knock quietly on the door. It was a perfunctory sound, short and to the point. Almost brusque in fact. Some might suggest the sound was rather like Natasha herself. Others would disagree. 

Still. Natasha found the action oddly pleasing. Relaxing, almost. There was an odd freedom in being able to knock – if you knocked then you generally weren’t about to kick a door down. Nor were you attempting to sneak in. That said, Natasha had been on countless assignment where a knock proceeded grave danger so it wasn’t always an indicator of safety. 

It was still an oddly pleasing action nonetheless. 

As the door slid open silently a la JARVIS, Natasha wasted no time in stepping into the room. That too was an instinctual action. Some Agents preferred to scout out a room first before entering – learn the lay of the land etc. Not Natasha. She found it better to rely on her instincts. Clint liked to tease her that she had an innate ‘spidey sense’ just like that kid who ran around calling himself Spider Man. Black Widow. Spider Man. No one ever claimed that Clint didn’t have a puerile sense of humour. 

Anyway. Natasha preferred to enter a room and appraise the situation immediately. Not that other Agents were wrong; prior knowledge had saved more than one life in the past, Natasha just found that she reacted better in fast-moving situations. 

It made it even more pleasing that she didn’t feel the necessity to scan the room immediately on entrance. She felt secure here. Even if it was only in this most secure of rooms. 

Pleasing. 

As Natasha swept into the room, an unplanned smile immediately slipped onto her lips at the sight spread out before her. It was a gentle smile, so unlike the amused smirk that normally graced her expression. It was a smile she’d only learnt in recent months as her more normal expressions of pleasure sometimes alarmed Tony.

That very state of alarm was in fact one of the factors that gave Tasha hope that some of the man’s higher faculties were still functioning. Tony, these days, didn’t always have the capabilities to understand situations or words, but he could sometimes register the subtle dangers behind an expression. Natasha had no doubt that some of her smirks contained hints of danger. It was too ingrained into her. 

Tony’s alarm gave her some hope in the otherwise very bleak future for the man.

The man would never fully recover. 

Natasha refused to try to soften that blow, not even to herself. There was no point in trying to delude herself. It was impractical. 

He was lost.

Sometimes the pain behind that thought would make her throat clench in anger. That someone with Tony’s brain… his personality…

Life wasn’t fair. She knew that. It was what you made of it, so there was no use in whinging. 

This still shouldn’t have happened to Tony.

He was one of _hers_.

That she had no target for her anger just made everything more difficult. Those who had had him had ripped that pleasure away from her by killing themselves upon discovery ***. There were no others. Natasha had checked personally.

All she could do now was support this child in Tony’s shell. Care for him. Fight his demons. Protect him. _Avenge_ him on every villain out there who he could no longer fight.

Cherish him.

Support the others as the reality dawned. Her shoulders were broad enough for that. 

A vicious hint twisted her previously tender smile. Tony wasn’t looking. It was safe. Those who belonged to her would not be hurt like this again. She was not arrogant enough to fool herself into believing that she could protect them from all harm.

Their lifestyles did not allow for such childish dreams. 

But when they were hurt? She would avenge them.

Natasha allowed a deep breath to fill her lungs and regained her gentleness before slipping further into the room and joining the scene that had made her smile so. 

Tony was leaning against Clint, his back must have been paining him, eyes closed and expression in a rare state of peacefulness. Clint, in turn, was slumped against the bed, head lolling against his chest as soft snores emitted from his throat. Slumbering quietly, the pair of them. Natasha’s lips twitched once more.

Steve had most likely been the one to cover the pair in Tony’s favourite blanket. He had been sketching something on the paper currently resting on his bent knees. Natasha wasn’t in position to see what, but there was a high probability it was the pair in front of him.

Some would have suggested that the scene was ‘cute’. Not Natasha of course. No. Never. Such vocabulary would never have crossed her mind, particularly not in regards to her team-mates. 

Her entrance, however, she had broken the cu-adorab-peaceful scene as Steve’s focus was now on her rather than his drawing though a welcoming smile was already crossing his face. The Captain ever was protective. 

“Good afternoon, Natasha.” Came the expected polite greeting. He always was so polite, it was…charming. Refreshing. Clint and Tony must have been sleeping for a while if Cap was not bothering to lower his tone.

“Captain.” The redhead replied as she set her over-full tray deftly on the ground somehow avoiding spilling a single drop. “A good day?” She, taking her lead from her commander, equally did not lower her volume. Besides, the soup she had brought was much better warm than cool. 

Steve’s countenance bore a lightness to it that he did not usually possess whilst in this room. His eyes were creased at the corners – he’d been smiling, and his hair was as neat as it was when he had first brushed it that morning. Clearly he hadn’t been running his hand through it in frustration. 

“It has indeed been,” Steve responded, eyes creasing once more as his smile deepened. His hand cradling the pencil gestured at some of the papers placed in neat piles around him on the floor. Natasha tilted her head until the messy lines morphed into somewhat legible letters. Her smile widened even further.

“He did these himself?” she guessed, observing how the letters were beneath letters written out in Steve’s own neat script. Tony had most likely copied out the letters. “Progress indeed. Was he recognising what he was doing?” 

As she spoke, she kept one close eye on the two slumbering men whilst carefully removing the bowls of soup from the tray. Clint was definitely showing signs of stirring and Tony probably wasn’t far behind. That alone spoke volumes about how safe the archer felt in this room; in near every other room then the assassin would have been alert within seconds of someone entering.

Steve nodded in response to her question, his eyes visibly shining with genuine pride. That was pleasant to see; Natasha had been well aware of how much the man-out-of-time had been struggling with this disabled version of Tony. There was no way that this time last week Steve would have been so proud of Tony for copying some letters. Something had changed, and Natasha was pleased to see it. 

“mmm….” 

Came the disgruntled groan of someone keen to stay in slumber.

“ ‘trn down th’volume. ‘m sleepin’.” 

Natasha didn’t try to hide her smile, nor Steve his chuckle. “It’s time to wake up, Clint. It’s lunch time.” 

The tousled-brown head raised slightly. Tasha could physically see his nose twitching as he scented the air to detect whether she was lying to him or not. 

“Soup?”

“Yes, Clint. Avgolemono Soup.” 

At that Clint’s head swung upright simultaneously with his eyes opening and a grin leaping onto his face. “I _love_ Avgol-whatso-emono Soup.” He crowed, keeping his voice quiet so as not to make Tony startle awake. All previous trace of his reluctance to wake up had completely vanished from his countenance, something else that amused Natasha greatly.

As the man finished speaking, he gently shifted the arm that Tony was leaning on until the thin man was engulfed by the limb. “Hey Tones. It’s time to wake up.” Clint’s tone had somehow morphed into a gentle sound so far from his usual pitch that it never failed to impress Tasha. He had built up a relationship with Tony that none of the rest had managed. 

On hearing his name, Tony blinked once. Twice. Slowly dragging himself into wakefulness as more noise became apparent. As he became more acquainted with consciousness, his muscles all tensed as his ever present fear swept over him, but all it took was a quick hush and some reassurance from Clint and he was fine once more, smiling shyly at Tasha. 

Natasha, keeping her expression soft, edged forward on her knees holding a mug with a lid out in front of her. “Here you go, Tony. Lunch. Are you hungry?” With her free hand she gestured at her stomach, rubbing at it in a circular motion in the universal movement for ‘hunger’. 

Tony’s expression seemed caught between pleasure and nerves. He always did seem nervous when presented with food. Natasha suspected that he’d been offered food whilst in captivity and had it taken away again. Or some other such treatment. It appeared best to just be patient.

After a moment or two during which Steve and Clint both dug into their portions appreciatively, Tony slowly nodded his head, his lip edging between his teeth as he chewed on it nervously.

Natasha merely smiled at him before holding out the cup for him to take. “Good, me too.” She probably should take him to the table in the corner of the room where he normally ate his meals, but it was good to show him that not everything had to be set into a routine.

This whole interaction was new to all of them. Normally she would help Tony eat his meal at the table as he didn’t have the dexterity to feed himself easily, but if he was having a good day… then it was worth a shot. The cup itself had a lid on it so would be hard to spill, and the bread was easy enough for him to hold. His hand could spasm so it might smush slightly, but that didn’t matter. The man was used to drinking from cups, so hopefully this wouldn’t be too hard for him.

Tony stared at the mug held out at him for a few two minutes whilst Steve and Clint very carefully didn’t overtly watch him. Natasha just remained rock steady, keeping her same expression as she waited for Tony to make his move. 

Eventually, Tony reached out in a series of several aborted jerks. Each time he froze as though to see what Natasha was going to do next. Each time she waited patiently. Steadily.

Once she was sure that Tony’s fingers were clasped around the opposite side of the mug she slowly let go and pulled her own bowl into her lap. “Good, Tony.” She praised, her voice warm, “Now eat.” 

Then, once again with affected disinterest, she focused on her own meal watching Tony through her peripheral vision to see what the man would do next. 

Tony, to her delight, slowly began to feed himself his first entire meal since his return.

Today… Yes. Today was a good day. 

 

*** Note: If someone could please tell me if the grammar behind this sentence is correct I would be grateful! The had had…had part. My research says it’s correct but it looks so wrong. I use fragments and bad grammar on purpose, but don’t like it when I’m not sure! *grumbles*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** An apology to Alucard2008, I had said that I’d be involving the Hulk in this story (and was planning to – I had the whole chapter drafted out and everything!) and have written several versions of this chapter with him in them, but have decided against it. I had contemplated having the Tower attacked and an attempt made at kidnapping Tony as bribery against the others, but decided against if for several reasons.  
> A.) This fic is designed at looking at the interactions between the new Tony and the team  
> B.) The team/JARVIS/SHIELD are far too protective of Tony at the moment – he’s still only recently been recovered and every one is on high alert.  
> C.) I don’t think Bruce would allow himself to get angry enough for any other reason than an attack against the Tower – too much rage would be far too much of a set back.
> 
> Sorry to anyone else who was rooting for Tony/Hulk interaction – I hope my rationale makes sense. Though possibly… I’ve just had an idea for an epilogue of this story that I might well do including the Hulk. *ponders* Just a thought I’ve literally this second had…
> 
> That said, I wanted to thank everyone (just as a break from apologising…) for all your wonderful comments, kudos and subscriptions. They make me smile a great deal!
> 
> Also I wanted to apologise for how long this update took. Life decided to hit me with a two by far, and then follow that up by being stamped over by a herd of buffalo, and then combine that with a massacre of kittens. Fluffy ones. Needless to say I haven’t really been in the mindset to write, I’m trying. This chapter is most definitely not my best, and may well be edited at a later stage, but I didn’t want to keep folks waiting any longer. I can’t promise further chapters are going to be much speedier – I’m trying to acclimatise to a heck of a lot and it’s taking its time. Sorry again.
> 
> One last apology. I'm sorry for how abruptly this chapter ends. I had written more, but everything else I wrote just sounded wrong. This seemed the best place to end it. ^^
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and thank you all once again for the subscriptions, kudos and comments.

Bruce Banner shifted the tray he was bearing until it was safe for him to knock quietly on the door. It was a quiet, polite-sounding knock, the type of knock that doctors worldwide used to announce themselves before entering a patient’s room. 

The knock suited Dr. Banner perfectly, although it was less applicable to his alterego who preferred much … louder entrances.

He would always announce himself with a knock; it seemed so rude to not do so. He’d spent a lot of time in countries where some people had accommodation that was so ramshackle that it didn’t even have a door. People who didn’t have a cent to their name. By knocking he acknowledged that he was entering their territory, it afforded them a sense of respect that few other elements of their life granted them. 

It was important to grant Tony with the same respect. 

Bruce knew about far too much of his friends daily life these days. He helped clean him. Was aware of how his bowel moments were. Had had his hands all over his friend, and seen him in all states of undress. Tony had nothing physical that was private these days.

It was the least he could do to knock.

No one knew quite how the Hulk would react to Tony. It was obvious how much the creature missed Tony as Bruce was informed by his teammates that the Hulk frequently asked after ‘Tinman’. When the genius had first disappeared, the Hulk’s rage had certainly been a lot harder to control initially. 

That rage had lessened as time passed, but the Hulk had certainly become more protective of his remaining teammates. Steve frequently put forth the opinion that Tony’s disappearance had been the catalyst to the Hulk becoming a much better teammate – he listened to orders and whilst still enjoyed going on smashing sprees, was much easier to direct through them. 

Clint had made attempts at telling him that Tony was back now, but couldn’t meet him. That had set the Hulk off into a temper, but he’d soon been talked down and even appeared to understand why he couldn’t see Tony yet.

Hopefully one day Tony would be well enough that they’d be able to take him to the Hulk ‘play room’ and the two could meet. The others were all certain that the Hulk wouldn’t hurt Tony, and Bruce had long ago decided to trust his teammates. 

Hell. Hopefully one day Tony would be well enough to leave this room. Well, Bruce was going to try to push for that today. 

It still seemed a backwards thought though – to hope that Tony would be able to see the Hulk. Bruce resisted the urge to snort in amusement at the thought as Jarvis kindly opened the door and let him in.

A grin crossed over Bruce’s expression as he took in the scene before him. Nearly everyone was still in the room, all bar Thor. That was unusual – Tony tended to get uncomfortable with too many people in the room at the same time, but he seemed perfectly happy at this moment. Natasha and Steve were talking in the corner, whilst Tony lay next to Clint as the manchild read him a story. Wind in the Willows, it sounded like. 

Tony himself looked…peaceful. He had a sheen of sweat coating his skin suggesting that Natasha had completed their physio session. Either that or he’d had multiple anxiety attacks, but the atmosphere in the room was too casual for that. That plus the way he was nearly leaning against Clint in his efforts to see the pictures also suggested he wasn’t too anxious. That wouldn’t have been the case if the man was recovering from a panic attack.

“ JARVIS,” he whispered, “Could you see if Thor is available to join us?” The Norse God probably had the least interaction with Tony out of all of them – his journeys to and from Earth meant that his schedule was the least predictable of all of them. Tony did enjoy his routines. Still, Thor would be most pleased by this interaction and deserved to be here for it. 

A quiet beep sounded quietly acknowledging Bruce’s request. The sound itself was quiet enough that it wouldn’t disturb Tony, yet loud enough that Bruce could easily pick it up in the serene atmosphere coating the room. The scientist-cum-superhero nodded briefly at his teammates before broadening his smile and padding towards the two largest man-children of the Tower. 

“Good afternoon, Tony. Clint. I’m sorry to interrupt your story, but it’s time for your medication now Tony.” It had taken them a long time to find a phrasing that wouldn’t frighten Tony. It had helped greatly when JARVIS designed a coating that they could safely dip Tony’s pills into which then enabled them to be painted different colours. Somehow by causing them to resemble brightly coloured blobs this made them less terrifying. 

Stark Industries were still debating about selling this patent to medical services so that medication could then look less dull for children. The negative effects of this could of course be that pills might then be mistaken for sweets which could cause children (or anyone, really) to overdose on them by accident. Bruce personally preferred the idea of keeping pills looking bland. He knew how impulsive people could be. It could be so easy for someone who was feeling low to overdose on them just because there was the mental association with sweets there. There would not be a chance for Tony to accidently overdose on his medication. It just wouldn’t happen, so this wasn’t a danger. 

Even now though, some days Tony would rebel slightly against taking these pills. It wasn’t the rebellion of an adult, however, but more of a disgruntled child. He’d curl his lip, or try to turn his face away, never anything that could be taken as outright disobedience, but it still signalled his opinion. 

This always filled Bruce with mixed feelings.

He hated having to force Tony to do something he obviously didn’t want to do; the man demonstrated so little opinion on anything, after all. If there was any other way that Tony could be given these medications, then they’d be using it. Yes, they could be administered intravenously, but that would resolve in having Tony constantly bearing a port for said injection site. 

That wasn’t ideal either. 

However, the fact that he did show an opinion was a good thing. Something to be encouraged. With this in mind, Bruce always tried to make sure that Clint was present when he was giving Tony his medication. The man just had a way with Tony that no one else quite seemed to have. He had a way of somehow changing Tony’s mind without directly going against his wishes. 

Bruce only wished that he could do the same. 

Still, if wishes were dishes and all…

Maybe it was silly to waste his wishes on things like that when he could be wishing that Tony was better, or rather, that this had never happened. That would be the best outcome. 

Physically? Tony should recover. Mostly. 

He would probably walk with a limp and it was unlikely he would regain his full range of dexterity. But he should be able to live a much more normal life than he currently could when a strong breeze looked like it could knock him over. 

It was tough to tell how much further surgeries could help him, they would certainly improve on his current abilities, but the doctors (and Bruce agreed) had deemed it best to wait for Tony to settle a bit more mentally and regain some weight. 

If the injuries had all been fresh? Then it would have been a different story. Alas, that was not the case. 

It was so hard to tell what would improve when he was still so emaciated that his body wasn’t reacting as it would when he was at a decent weight. 

The friend in Bruce wanted to do nothing other than shove food down his friend’s throat until those bones were all soundly covered, but the doctor in him knew that was inadvisable. The weight needed to be gained healthily, and through sensible foods. Even after all this time, re-feeding syndrome could potentially be an issue. That and Tony’s stomach was still so sensitive; he couldn’t eat anything too rich, or fatty, or spicy. The list went on. 

Hence all the smoothies. 

They were easy on Tony’s overtaxed digestive system, and tasted good too. Lots of supplements were included in them too; protein and vitamins. Plus they were a fairly easy way to pack calories. 

That was almost as important as their nutritional value. 

Bruce and a team of doctors spent hours planning Tony’s meals out to a T. They had to be careful to not incite diarrhoea or nausea; such things could be a huge set back.

It certainly helped that Tony would eat pretty much anything; Bruce had not tested this theory overly extensively, but he was pretty certain that if Tony was offered things that weren’t actually food and instructed to eat them? He would.

It made him feel sick if he thought about it too much. 

Strangely enough? Even those thoughts didn’t gain rumblings from the Hulk. No matter how often Bruce pawed over Tony’s x-rays or MRI scans, no matter how much he tried to decipher what had happened to his friend from the patchwork of injuries, there was no sense of a stirring within.

There was no doubt that he felt a constant simmering of rage. 

No.

Definitely no doubt on that.

It was as if, however, the Hulk realised that this was a case much more suited to Bruce than the Hulk himself. Maybe he too was uncertain how Tony would react to him? That was inference though. Despite how long Bruce had lived with the Hulk now he still had such little understanding of the Other Guy. He’d run test after test on his own bloodwork, but that didn’t let him know how the creatures haring his body felt. How he thought. 

Well, other than angry. 

Bruce shook himself from his ruminations and crouched down next to the pair. One hand grasped a sippy cup full to the brim whilst the other held a much smaller cup of the specially designed pills.

“Good afternoon, Tony. Clint.” He repeated, smiling softly, seeing as the pair hadn’t responded to him. He had tried the broader grins that Clint, Steve and Thor all preferred; such an easily readable gesture seemed much easier for Tony to read. Yet the movement had felt false and forced on his face; initially Tony had been slow to trust him, and Bruce theorised it was because of the false expression.

Once he had switched to one of his much more typical smiles, more a curl of the lips rather than full out grin, Tony had swiftly relaxed much faster than before. 

It was far too entertaining. The Clint of old would have been deliberately ignoring him, pretending to be completely engrossed in the book in that subtle form of trolling his teammates the other man preferred. This however? This was involving Tony’s health. There was no way that Clint would delay it. He was truly as engrossed as he appeared.

It spoke a lot for how relaxed he was in here. How safe the room felt for all of them. 

Tony, in turn, equally hadn’t noticed the doctor’s approach. He was leaning against Clint, staring at the book in fascination. He undoubtedly did not recognise the words, and probably even struggled to work out what the images were depicting. Some of his doctor’s (the fully trained ones, that was) believed that the passages between his eyes and brains were struggling to recognise things like lines on a page as words or pictures. He could recognise the fact that colours were present, but couldn’t seem to work out what forms they took. Or even that the lines meant something. 

Hopefully that was something that would improve.

Anyway. Despite the man’s lack of comprehension, something about the bright and colourful images that littered the book kept him fascinated. It was a pleasure to watch. 

With a further grin, Bruce rattled the cup of pills he held quietly, before repeating himself for a third time.

“Clint. Tony.” 

Like the rest of the Avengers, Bruce was careful to keep his pitch low and calming, and the words were said at a slightly slower pace than normal. That was possibly why it had taken three attempts to capture the two before him’s attention.

“Oh, hey Bruce. Time for Tony’s pills?” Clint questioned, stretching slightly as his attention finally shifted from the book before him.

Bruce nodded in agreement, holding out the cup in Tony’s direction, the man in question now blinking in slight confusion at Bruce before a grin slowly overtook his features.

“ ‘ruce. Bruce!” 

There was no doubt the pleasure that Tony’s voice contained at seeing his friend, the perpetually scruffy doctor. The very pleasure within the rich tone caused Bruce’s smile to widen.

“Hello, Tony. Are you having a good day?” 

Bruce tried to keep the words he used relatively simple, though not as simple so as to insult the man. He did once have phenomenal intellect, and Bruce quietly hoped that the more they ‘stretched’ Tony’s capabilities, then the further he would reach. 

It was interesting the different views they all had.

Steve viewed the overall picture, including the rest of the team.

Clint viewed the present.

Natasha viewed the physical necessities.

Bruce viewed the future.

Thor? Bruce was uncertain quite what view Thor took. He was probably closest to Clint in giving Tony present pleasures. There was no doubting the man’s wisdom, after all, he had been raised to be a King. Yet… Thor struggled with Tony. Tony inherently found more Thor more nerve-wracking than the others. Probably partially because, as Bruce had been speculating earlier, Thor wasn’t around as much. 

They would work on it.

As a team. 

They’d work on it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright... I declare this done. 
> 
> Sort of pleased with it? I think? Not really sure. I like the whole symmetry aspects - is the first time I've tried to write something remotely 'arty'. I'm not pleased with the Thor elements of the chapter - really struggled to see how he'd interact with Tony. It's why his chapter is so different from all the others - his relationship is different. 
> 
> Anyroad, thank you for all the comments, kudos and subscriptions. They've been super motivating! 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> (Sorry again for the lack of Hulk interaction)

Thor made his way down the corridor, a broad grin stretched across his face. He bore no tray, and only barely paused to knock at the door which held his team-mates enclosed. 

He was no part of this routine, and he knew that well. He regretted that in some ways, but it was too impractical for him to become a firm fixture in Tony’s daily routine if he could not promise to always adhere to it. That could well run the risk of causing further harm to this younger Stark that Thor found himself greatly willing to avoid.

This younger Stark was just so fragile.

Broken.

Shattered. 

The thought of it still caused anger to curl deep within the God’s belly and his muscles ache for the ability to hurt those who had so hurt his brother. 

Even Mjolnir seemed to react to Anthony’s plight. She seemed to almost thrum whenever approaching the man’s quarters. Just as she did at present as the man in question eagerly approached his teammates.

The door slid promptly open as the ever-efficient JARVIS registered Thor’s brief knock and the god entered the room, slowing his pace so as not to cause alarm to any of the occupants within. 

The sight within caused his grin to broaden in a way that interactions with this new Anthony rarely did. The whole team were now together in a way that was so rare these days; the very thought raised Thor’s own spirits. 

“My friends,” 

He uttered softly, the greeting all he needed. 

It had taken him some time to adjust to the way of speaking that Anthony now required, not because he was stupid and believed everyone within his vicinity to be half deaf. But more because previously the man of Iron had always appreciated Thor’s buoyant personality.

Thor had been hopeful that if he acted in a sufficiently jovial fashion then Anthony would adjust and slowly lose his fear. 

Unfortunately that hadn’t happened yet, so Thor had decided to modulate himself instead. Once Anthony was over his usual nerves on of first meetings that day then he would swiftly warm to Thor and the god would allow himself to become more boisterous, quite often swinging the man into his arms as one would a child. 

Anthony certainly seemed to enjoy it. 

But then he always had had the sense of humour of an infant as the Lady Pepper had always been quick to inform him. 

The three men crouched over a book with some a vibrant colour-filled dust jacket all looked up on Thor’s entrance, two of them grinning in welcome whilst one ducked away shyly. 

Thor’s grin (somehow) increased even further. This shyness was very different from the fear that Thor was usually greeted by. Somehow it was more disquieting as the man of Iron did not really suit the label ‘shy’ but it was still an improvement.

It was clear as to why the good doctor had asked him to come and visit today. 

“My friend, Anthony. Good day to you all,” he repeated, nodding at the others in the room although he had already seen them several times that day. 

He had dithered for a long time before deciding to settle on calling Tony, ‘Anthony’. The name did seem to make him tense somewhat, but Thor had always called Tony, ‘Anthony’. To not do so now would only dishonour the man he had been. 

Maybe, as Natasha believed said, it was important to realise that Tony was not the man he once was, nor would he ever be again, but there had to still be traits of the man-that-was still remaining. By succumbing and calling him a new name, it was as though he would be laying that man to rest. 

Names held such power. 

Thor, and the others, had given up so much, had altered so much of their natural behaviours, for Anthony that Thor could just not make himself give up that one final tie to the man of iron. 

It hurt too much. 

There was a moment or two of quiet broken only by Natasha and Steve’s quiet conversation (discussing different types of training drills to incorporate War Machine into the team, it sounded like) until Clint leant slightly closer and muttered to Tony’s down-turned head.

“Hey, Tones? You remember Thor, right? Thor. He’s cool.” 

The words themselves were accompanied by a most deliberate thumbs up – a gesture that Anthony himself had taught Thor could be used to indicate a variety of different subcontexts. Here, for instance, it was clearly intended to be reassuring and enthusiastic with no hint of the sarcasm that Anthony had frequently used it for. 

Anthony kept his head bowed for a moment more, before Thor caught him peering at him through his hair. The god crouched down so he was on a level with the three men and reined in his smile slightly so as not to appear too intimidating.

“Greetings, young Anthony. Do you remember me? We had much fun last we met.” 

The new vantage point easily afforded Thor the view of Tony anxiously glance in between Bruce and Clint, possibly as he tried to work out what Thor was saying? “For?” came the hesitant response some moments later.

Thor’s grin broadened once more, “Indeed. ‘tis I, young warrior. Thor.” 

Anthony raised his head slightly, a sign of his confidence growing once more, and flashed a hint of a grin at the thunder God. He did remember this man! This was the man who could lift him so easily, and did so without trying to drag him places. He also told things. Tales he called them! Not with … with… pictures. Pictures like Clint did. Tales which could be told without anything in his hand.

Tony was too stupid to understand what was being said, but For didn’t seem to mind.

For was fun. Not Clint-fun, and he could make Tony think of bad times when he shouted, but he was fun.

Natasha smiled to herself as she observed the interaction between the two – it was a sign of how much Thor himself has matured over the years; there would have been a time when he would have been annoyed at Tony’s inability to say his name correctly.

Tony had altered all of them since his return. 

Steve was possibly the only one who was being altered for the worse, and that seemed to be improving. 

They’d been a team for several years now, but Tony had truly made them become a family. 

The symmetry was powerful. They’d become a team because of the need to avenge Coulson, Clint, New York. 

They became a family to grant a team-mate the best possible life they could.

There was no avenging possible, and at first that had left them somewhat adrift. 

Rudderless.

But Tony had drawn them. His desperate need called to them all with just as much of a siren-call as the Avengers Alarm. 

Where they would go from here? Who knew. Natasha certainly didn’t. 

They’d be stronger for it though, even permanently down a member. 

They were united.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There is a room. 

The room is within a tower. 

It is not the Penthouse Suite. Instead it is ensconced close to the centre of the tower. Below it lays the floor of one of the deadliest females. Above it rests the floor of a God. On one side resides a man who some would argue is nearly a God. On the other abides a man with breath-taking anger-management issues. Presiding over all of those? There lives the only man who has ever been tested by a secret agency three times for the X-gene due to the superiority of his eye sight. The room is secure.

The room used to be a prison, despite its security.

Although no physical bolts kept it’s occupant within, chains of the mind prevented him from leaving.

Now? 

The door is open. The occupant can leave at will. 

He rarely does. 

But he can. 

Sometimes, on days when he’s feeling brave, the Tower will ring with laughter as he interacts with his family. 

Sometimes all will be present.

Sometimes only some.

Sometimes, even, the Hulk will make an appearance to spend time with the man. 

That took some time to occur.

The door is always open.


End file.
